


Broken Heart, No Sleeves

by Dreaming_of_Fairys



Category: Fairy Tail
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst, Broken Promises, Drug Use, Excessive Drinking, Fairy Tail Angst Week, Fighting, Gay Sex, Light Masochism, M/M, Manipulation, One-Sided Attraction, Oral Sex, Pole Dancing, Sex, Sex for Favors, Smoking, Strippers & Strip Clubs, Stripping, Swearing, stingue, strip club au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-03
Updated: 2016-05-03
Packaged: 2018-06-06 06:15:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,211
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6742546
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dreaming_of_Fairys/pseuds/Dreaming_of_Fairys
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Kind of a submission for Fairy Tail Angst Week? Doesn't really fit the prompts but, whatever XP</p><p>Rogue and Sting had a deal. It wasn't a relationship. It wasn't a game. But toxic things can never stay afloat for long...especially not when someone's had enough.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Broken Heart, No Sleeves

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Sound_Of_Inspiration](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sound_Of_Inspiration/gifts), [TheDarkGodMogar](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheDarkGodMogar/gifts).



> Gifted to my internet sis LinaLee for her help in formulating some of these ideas, my bestie TheDarkGodMogar for just being awesome, and to my beautiful girlfriend WendyTheSkyMaiden for everything she's done for me <3
> 
> The music I listened to while writing this was this playlist: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uAvowbc5EXU 
> 
> Rogue and Sting's Group Dance Song: Go to 29:40  
> Sting's Solo Dance Song: Go to 35:44 (the song ends at 38:40ish. I don't really like the next song so x'D)
> 
> Sorry if the second scene feels like it over-explains things, I intended that to be the beginning of the fic, but then I got another idea so *shrugs*
> 
> Enjoy you guys! <3

****Hot breath brushes against Sting’s ear, sensual and strangely soothing as his back pressed against the wall, clutching tightly onto the arm of his naked partner. A sharp tugging on his hair elicits a debauched moan from his lips, gasping in pure heat as another hand runs down his side. “Ahhh...haaa...m-more...p-please...” Sting digs his teeth into his lip, breaking the kiss they’d been trying to keep, crying out in both pain and pleasure as his partner pulls harder. “AHH...Y-YES...LIKE THAT...NNRGH~!” A small hiss escapes Rogue’s lips, not as enthusiastic as usual during his giving of sexual favors, and Sting can feel it brush against his own mouth. Sting is shaking, whimpering with lust as he whispers, “P-Please...g-give it to me...aaahhh...”

Sting could still feel the strange disconnect as Rogue yanks Sting’s head downwards, bringing him face to face with Rogue’s mostly hardened length. There had never been much emotion during these sessions, but even so, there was at least some connection. Today, it was as if Sting was a stranger.

Nonetheless, he greedily sucks down Rogue’s entire arousal, moaning as he feels Rogue fully harden in his mouth. He bobs his head slightly, stopping when he reaches the tip to lick over the head for a brief moment before messily taking Rogue in again. Rogue is panting softly, hand still fisting in Sting’s hair. He tugs slightly, causing Sting to choke on Rogue’s cock on the next downwards movement, Sting's moans increasing in volume. His throat goes slack and loose as Rogue begins to slowly thrust into his mouth, saliva dripping down Sting’s chin as he whines in pure bliss. He was wrecked already, and they hadn’t even gotten to the good part.

Rogue suddenly pulls Sting’s head back, listening to the loud cry of disappointment and need Sting emits, despite basking in the torturous feeling of denial. One of Sting’s wandering hands moves down to stroke his own erection, which Rogue slaps away. Normally he scolds Sting for his actions, calls him dirty and naughty until he’s gotten Sting all riled up, but today Rogue is deathly silent as he pushes Sting down back first onto the seat built into the wall. Sting spreads his legs eagerly, wanting to be filled and fucked senseless to the point where it hurt. Rogue always takes his time here, going tortuously slow just to tease and draw out Sting’s arousal until his cock was aching and dripping precum.

But today was different. Today, Rogue licks over his fingers, quickly uses them to stretch and lube Sting, then presses the tip of his slick shaft into Sting. Sting moans loudly, slamming his hips down all the way, confused about why Rogue wasn’t going hard and fast by now. “C-C’mon-!” he gasps, practically bouncing on Rogue’s cock despite lying down. “H-Hard...f-fast...m-make it hurt...p-please...n-need it...aaah~!”

But Rogue’s movements are slow and almost uncaring, letting Sting do most of the work. Sting doesn’t mind impaling himself on Rogue’s cock the moment the head slams into his sweet spot, a loud moan turning into a full scale scream. He grips at nothing as Rogue slowly takes Sting’s legs and throws them over his shoulders, giving Sting a different angle. It was harder for Sting to move being held tilted upwards like this, but Rogue’s slow thrusting had a greater effect. Sting moans and gasps again, mumbling incoherent praise as his orgasm starts to build up inside him. “Ohh...ohhh g-god...R-Rogue...haa...mmmm... S-So...big...s-so...good...hurts...ahhh...p-please…”

Normally Rogue teases him about this mumbling, turning Sting on even further to the point he couldn’t speak, too lost in the bliss. But not tonight. Tonight, when Sting cums messily all over his own chest, moaning and panting, none of the usual tears of pleasure fill his eyes. It takes him a long moment to recover, the only sound he makes being the disappointed whine when Rogue’s still hard arousal pulls out of him, feeling empty and far too dry. When he finally finds his voice, Sting rasps out, “Wh-What’s wrong with you...?”

“Don’t talk,” Rogue replies flatly, sighing dejectedly as he pulls on his clothes despite the discomfort. “I’m not in the mood tonight.”

Sting sits up straight, still lightheaded from his orgasm. “Rogue, wait, I can take care of that... _please_ let me take care of that…”

“No.” Rogue’s voice is hollow and empty. “I’m going home. Goodnight, Sting.”

“Don’t forget,” Sting says, moving through the darkness to find the six one-dollar bills Rogue nearly forgot by the door. “The money I owe you. To keep up my end of the deal.”

“Whatever,” Rogue replies, taking the money and walking out the door. “See you tomorrow, I guess.”

Sting smells smoke a second before the door closes, realizing that Rogue lit a cigarette already. He must be in a _really_ shitty mood. He stands up, stretching and moving over to get his pants, pulling out the toilet paper he’d shoved in there. He wipes himself clean, the quickly dresses. He leaves the room designated for lapdances without a trace that they’d even been there, closing the door shut behind him.

He walks into the backstage area, going to pick up his things when he runs into Minerva. She’s dressed in slightly sexy civilian clothing, standing in front of a dusty propped up hand mirror, removing her excessive makeup with a baby wipe. “Hello, Sting,” she sighs, sounding more than a little exhausted. “You’re still here after 5am too? Jesus Christ, does anyone here have a life during the daytime?”

Sting sighs. “Apparently not.” He moves across the room to grab a liquor bottle likely left behind by Lyon, taking a long swig as he walks up next to Minerva. “What are you doing here anyways, an hour after closing?”

Minerva snorts loudly. “I could ask the same of you, although I probably know the answer.” Sting opens his mouth, then closes it again. “I could tell by your scratchy voice. Though I will admit,” she reaches for a new wipe, trying to get off the cat eye eyeliner she had applied earlier, “you normally sound way more hoarse than that. Not satisfied?”

“None of your business,” Sting groans, taking another long drink of liquor. “You’re avoiding the question I asked you.”

“Got in a fight with Jenny,” Minerva says cooly. “Little bitch seemed to think that it would be okay to steal my last pack of cigarettes. I’d been yelled at by Erza earlier anyways, so I was already in a shit mood.” She smirks slightly. “I kicked that blonde slut right in the middle of her boobs with my stilettos. The look on her face was priceless.”

Sting snorts loudly, draining the last bit of liquor. “Fucking hell, once again this is some strong shit.” He grabs Minerva’s plastic water bottle and pours it into the bottle. “Gonna leave this here. Lyon could really use a wake-up call. He’s gonna be drinking himself into an early grave at this point, he can’t hold his alcohol for shit.”

Minerva wrinkles her nose. “He puked all over the place two nights ago before you got here. Bickslow was _supposed_ to clean it up, but he was way too high to do anything. Which of course, made Mira mad and a ton of bullshit happened.”

Sting rolls his eyes as Minerva throws away her final wipe, finished with removing her makeup. All that remained was the blood red lipstick smeared across her lips. They walked together to Sting and Rogue’s shared changing room so Sting could grab his bag, then moved to the outside of the club together. The door was locked from the inside, so they moved outside into the back alleyway knowing the door would lock behind them. Sting lights two cigarettes, offering one to Minerva. She gladly takes it, needing her nicotine for the day since her supply had run out.

“Seeya, Minerva,” Sting starts to walk towards his car, the opposite direction than the female stripper.

“Bye, you little bitch,” she replies fondly, then steps around the corner into the cold night air, leaving Sting to drive home alone and drown in his thoughts of his partner’s strange actions.

Maybe the next night would tell...

* * *

 The sound of loud music pounds through the walls, shaking the shelves of glitter, stripper outfits, and various sexual objects. A blond teen slathers silvery white glitter across tanned, muscular shoulders. About three years of practice have made every moment a steady rhythm, something that he’s gotten accustomed too.

He looks over at the dark haired man beside him who is applying thick winged eyeliner around ruby red eyes. He looked gorgeous as always. The blond smirks and licks his lips. He was so tempted to slam him against the wall right now...but they were onstage in mere minutes, he couldn’t risk being late. Their manager, a scary lesbian named Mirajane, would hand them their asses on a silver platter if they were late by even a second. Sting didn’t blame her, honestly. The music was synced to a certain pattern, after all.

“Rogue, you ready?” Sting asks with a sigh, slipping the white leather jacket over his glittery shoulders.

“Just a sec,” Rogue replies in a dangerously soft voice, edged with something Sting couldn’t decipher. Rogue had been acting really strange lately, and Sting wasn’t really sure why. It was a total mystery to him.

He steps behind the other man, running his hands up his sides. Rogue flinches, but says nothing as he caps his eyeliner. “Whatever’s bothering you right now...I’ll make you forget it after the show.”

“No thanks.” Rogue’s voice is clipped. He pushes Sting away, reaching for his own jacket. “I plan on having a quiet evening with only a cigarette as company.”

Sting steps back with a _hmph_. “Suit yourself, then.” He waits with a scowl on his face as Rogue slides on his jacket. It always put Sting in a bad mood when Rogue denied him like this. The reason they’d made this agreement two years ago was so Sting would have someone to turn to that he could trust when he got like this, but lately it’s been feeling like Rogue isn’t holding up his end of the deal.

But now...he had to forget about that. Now it was time to lose himself in the music...and make good use of the pole. He smirks at Rogue, blue eyes twinkling. “You ready?”

“Yeah. Let’s get this over with.” Rogue does not sound enthusiastic.

Sting simply sighs and pushes open the door. Their friend Minerva shoves past Sting, in only a leather bikini, tall fishnets, and red heels. Her skin is flushed with sweat, but she has a smirk on her dark red lips. Must’ve been a good show.

Sting runs his fingers through his spiked hair, the leather jacket tight against his strong arms. The duo that had become known as “The Twin Dragons” move through the backstage area, passing by a sobbing Lyon with a bottle of strong liquor beside him and one of their most famous pole dancers named Jenny, ready to go on after Lyon and his partner Gray, who was currently nowhere to be found.

They wait by the door in silence, listening to Max try to rile up the crowd for their entrance. The music starts, and Sting lets it flow into his blood, his body, his soul. Beside him, Rogue stands cold and silent, like a statue, waiting for the signal.

“AAAAND NOW I PRESENT TO YOU...THE ONE AND ONLY...TWIN DRAGONS~!”

“Here it goes~” Sting smirks. “Time to put on a show!”

The doors open with a flash of white and black lights, followed by smoke, and the club roars. The audience contains mostly men, and although there are some women, they don't seem that amused by the show in front of them, as all of them are lesbians. Some of them could be bisexual, but it didn't really matter to Sting and Rogue. After all, they danced for the men and the men only.

Sting swivels his hips to the music, Rogue mirroring him on the opposite side, the smoky lights flashing across them. Sting licks his lips to wet them as he backs closer to Rogue. They stand back to back, moving together in perfect synchronization, motions fluid and sensual. Sting can feel Rogue’s muscles rippling underneath the tight leather, and holds back a small noise of enjoyment. He couldn't focus on Rogue now, he had to pay attention to the crowd, the music, the lights. Mind a little hazy, Sting whirls around towards the side of the stage, the opposite way Rogue goes, swiftly yanking off the tight leather from his upper half, revealing his carved abs and glittery shoulders. Rogue has done the same, red eyes glinting from underneath the dark fringe of hair.

Shouts of approval fill the air as Sting moves to the pole on the far side of the stage, one leg hooking over the metal as he swiftly pulls himself up. He slides up the surface, holding on tight as he turns around, back to the audience. He can see Rogue also making good use of his pole, his eyes meeting Sting’s as well for a brief moment before flicking away. Then Sting is spiraling, descending, moving as the beat drops, feeling the low bass resonate in his soul. One of his hands grips the pole as his other hand slides off his pants, throwing them offstage. Once again he’s back up the pole, grinding against it expertly, holding on with just his legs for a brief moment, muscles of his chest glittering silvery-white underneath the flashing lights.

He bends his body back upwards, gripping back onto the pole with his fingerless gloves, sweat sliding down from his brow. He licks over his lip again, arms straining as he reaches further upwards above him, hearing the roar of approval from the crowd below. He presses his crotch tighter against the pole, biting back a small sigh of enjoyment as he slides down again. He stops himself with only his legs once more, leaning back and stretching out his arms. One of his legs bends at the knee, leaving him in a very dangerous yet expert position. _Another crowd pleaser,_ he realizes with a smirk. He climbs off of the pole after a few more sensual movements, pressing his ass against the metal and grinding into it, feeling all of the eyes on his crotch. His hands slide down his leather underwear just enough to tease, showing the place where his v-line dips into his length, smirking at the cacophony of gasps and a few moans that echo in his ears.

Sting both loved and hated his job. He loved being a tease, he loved dancing and stripping, and he loved some of the people he worked with on his same level. What he hated were the way he was treated by his employers and the rest of society. Being a stripper and pole dancer was bad enough, but being part of an exclusively gay and lesbian club? An even worse crime to the populace, apparently.

He blows a kiss to the crowd, winking at a fairly attractive young man in the front of the room who looked ready to orgasm any second, and Sting watches as he trembles and sweats in his seat at the sudden attention. One of his friends claps him on the shoulder laughing, and Sting watches with amusement as another man shoves a condom into the younger man’s hand. The music starts to end, moving into the middle of the stage, Rogue joining him. They pressed their bare backs together again as the music faded.

Sting danced two songs. One with Rogue, and one alone. Since the strippers had to pay to use the space and Sting was far more popular than Rogue, he was able to afford a second song. A few people reach towards Rogue with dollar bills, throwing them at him and onto the stage. Sting bites his lip, feeling a bit bad that this crowd thought they were supporting Sting and Rogue, but any money that was left on the stage was taken to the club itself. They had to be given money directly for it to go to them. Rogue exited the stage without a single dollar bill as the next song started, smoke and white light filling the room. It was Sting’s time to shine.

The regulars knew the routine here. Each stripper had their own rules, and Sting’s were one of the less strict ones. His rule was basically “touch if you dare”.  He sways his hips as he moves onto the front part of the stage, feeling a single hand brush against his leg. He turns and bends down towards the man, who sucks in a breath. Sting decides to bend the rules a bit, letting a single finger slide between the man’s pectoral muscles, the leather of the man’s shirt shifting at the touch. The man moans, and Sting pulls back with a smirk. He winks at him, then moves back around, shaking his ass in front of the man’s face, hands moving upwards slightly, back muscles rippling. Sting’s song was always faster and ‘dirtier’ than his and Rogue’s joint song, leaving him with plenty of opportunity to rile everyone up. Sting did offer lap dances, after all, and he wanted some attention tonight if Rogue wasn’t willing to cooperate.

The beat drops at last, Sting’s body reacting perfectly in time, alighting a unison cry among his audience. Sting finds himself against the third pole onstage, grinding his back against it once more, letting his eyes close and mouth open slightly, teasing the others with what appeared to be a silent moan. His hands find the cold metal despite his temporary lack of vision, and he pulls himself up onto the pole right as his eyes open, body twisting into a position that tightened all of his glittery muscles. He laughs quietly at the sight of someone fainting, moving quicker against the pole then suddenly slowing down again, drawing out every movement in an attempt to torture his crowd.

He feels a hand shove a dollar bill into his bottoms, and he reaches out a hand to brush the man’s cheek. A few others follow the first’s example, and Sting makes sure all of them receive a single teasing touch as well. One of them reaches up, hand brushing Sting’s ass, and Sting whirls around the poll so fast he became a blur in their drunken eyes. He keeps himself on the pole with his legs as his hands caress over the man’s chest, then he rolls upwards onto the pole again, hearing the man gasp behind him. Tonight was a rowdy crowd, and Sting was lapping up the attention.

The song is about to finish, so Sting does his signature movement of sliding all the way down the pole with only his legs, gaining screams and whistles of approvement. He drops to the floor, blowing another kiss as money is thrown at him and shoved into his undergarment or hands. As Sting moves off the stage, someone makes a desperate grab for his crotch, to which Sting turns around and breathes huskily, “See me later if you want it, won’t you~?” The man whines, and Sting laughs and moves offstage.

“Hey, anyone seen Rogue?!” he calls the moment he’s off, grabbing his spare jacket by the entrance and slipping it over his shoulders.

“No,” Minerva moves over to him, a jacket of her own over her skimpy clothing, passing Sting a lit cigarette. “He vanished into the back somewhere after your group show, haven’t seen him since.”

Sting takes a long drag on his cigarette, sighing softly. “He did say he wanted some quiet. I honestly don’t know what’s up with him.”

“Maybe he’s not feeling well,” Minerva exhales a puff of smoke, starting to walk, red heels clicking against the floor. “Loud music sure doesn’t help a headache.”

“Still,” Sting presses on, following her into the deeper backstage. “Something’s really not right. He’s been-”

His sentence is cut off by Lyon rushing up to him, reeking of strong liquor. The white-haired man is sobbing loudly, clenching onto the sleeve of Sting’s jacket in desperation. “Gr-Gray...Gray’s going on without me!”

“What the fuck are you talking about?” Sting snaps in annoyance, pulling Lyon off of him. “Isn’t it your show right you, dumbass?!”

“Y-Yeah, but today he said-” Lyon hiccups, “s-said he didn’t wanna dance with me anymore...a-after years of dancing together...he doesn’t _want_ me, c-could that mean-”

“We really don’t have time for you being a melodramatic ass, Lyon,” Minerva replies cooly. “You need to get it into your thick skull that Fullbuster doesn’t fucking have any feelings towards you. Just because you dance together doesn’t mean you’re in love.” She flicks her cigarette in Sting’s direction. “I mean, lookit these two. They’re just fuckbuddies. And some of the others who do shows together don’t even talk to each other outside of planning and choreography.”

“B-But-” Lyon stammers, trying to latch back onto Sting’s sleeve.

"Get your drunk ass outta here!” Sting snaps, shooing him away. “I’m having a shit evening, okay?” Lyon scrambles off, and Sting instantly moves to sit down on a nearby chair. “Ugh. I’m being a total bitch tonight, aren’t I?”

Minerva sits beside him, sighing and crossing her fishnet-covered legs. She holds her cigarette between her fingers, perfectly manicured red nails shining in the dim lighting. She presses the tip of the cigarette to her lips, inhaling deeply, then blowing it out. She takes a long time before answering, then says nonchalantly, “But you’re always a bitch.”

“I mean more than usual,” Sting sighs, bare feet crossing at the ankles. He sighs, then reaches for a half-empty vodka bottle someone left nearby. “Who’s is this?”

“No clue,” Minerva responds.

Sting shrugs, then takes a long swig. “Damn, that’s strong,” he wipes his mouth on the back of his hand. He’s used to strong alcohol, so it doesn’t effect him that much, but he knows that others in this club would faint from drinking half of this bottle. “Whoever’s this is probably will be too hammered to realize any of it’s gone.”

Minerva laughs, a trial of smoke moving through her dark red lips like a whisper of wind. “Everyone’s always too drunk in this shitty excuse for a strip club.” She flicks ashes onto the floor, chewing slightly on the inside of her cheek. “Why I stick around this place, I have no idea. I could easily apply for a better club, I make enough money that I could afford to dance at a place like that one fancy one in Crocus.”

Sting looks over at Minerva pointedly. “You know why you stay.”

Minerva laughs loudly. “What? Yukino? The shy bi girl that comes here once every Friday?” Her face suddenly goes sad. “Ha. As if any girl could ever could keep me in a place I didn’t want to be.”

“And yet, this one does,” Sting replies slyly. He takes another long drink of the vodka, feeling it burn as it goes down his throat. He shivers from the sensation as he leans back more in his chair, trying to relax despite the anxiety welling up inside him.

“I don’t love her, Sting,” Minerva says flatly. “She’s only interested in my body and in my dancing. A relationship based off of sex isn’t healthy.” Sting instantly sits up bolt upright, something about Minerva’s words cutting through his drunken haze. Minerva’s eyes widen slightly. “I didn't mean your situation. That’s not a relationship.”

“No, it’s not,” Sting replies huffily, taking another long drag of his cigarette. “Work and sex. That’s it. So I really don’t get why Rogue has to start acting so off and make things complicated.” He leans closer to Minerva, a tinge of anger in his voice. “We made a _promise_. I’d make sure to give him some money from my solo dance as long as he helps me during moments of sexual frustration. And he hasn’t been holding up his end of the deal.”

Minerva’s eyes are filled with harsh love. “Sting, go fucking _talk_ to him instead of sitting here bitching out your problems and getting drunk. If you wanted to truly forget your issues, you’d go steal some pot from Bickslow and get higher than the skyscrapers. And since you’re _not_ doing that, you obviously care enough to give it some thought.”

“Fine!” Sting stands up, vodka bottle nearly slipping from his gloved hand. “Fucking fine! I’ll go find him!” His eyes flash as he turns to move out of the room. “Goddammit,” he hisses on his way out, “where the fuck did Lisanna put my pants?”

“Here.” A pair of tight jeans are tossed into Sting’s arms, thrown by Kagura, sitting off to the side sharing a blunt with Bickslow and Lisanna. “We gotcha covered.”

Sting pulls on the jeans, cigarette between his lips, vodka in one hand. Finally mostly dressed, he turns to look at the three stagehands with a sigh. “Thanks, guys. And Bicks...I might be wanting some of that shit later, if this doesn't go well.”

“Kay,” Bickslow replies real chill, leaning back against the wall. “Whatever it is, good luck man.”

“Thanks,” Sting grumbles, then heads towards the back door. Likely Rogue was outside in the alley, taking a smoke break alone. He steps outside, the cool night air caressing his bare chest underneath his unzipped jacket. He spots the familiar red-orange glow of a lit cigarette and smells smoke in the air as he moves closer to the figure hunched over against the stone wall of the building nearby. “Rogue,” he says gruffly.

“Go away.” Rogue’s tone is no-nonsense, clipped and angry for no apparent reason.

“I will not fucking go away,” Sting growls, moving towards him with fiercely shining eyes. “I’m tired and horny and drunk and probably have a slight contact high from all of the weed in the air inside and you’re not keeping your end of the goddamn deal, Rogue Cheney!”

Rogue’s head whips around, instantly on his feet, cigarette between his lips as he stands face to face with Sting. “LEAVE ME THE FUCK ALONE, OKAY?! THERE’S A GODDAMN REASON WHY I DON’T WANT TO DEAL WITH YOU RIGHT NOW!”

Pure rage fills Sting’s veins as he throws the bottle in his hand against the wall, glass shattering everywhere and vodka splattering onto their clothes and the floor. “IF YOU’D JUST FUCKING TELL ME WHAT’S GOING ON, I’D LEAVE YOU ALONE!”

Rogue’s eyes flash with rage as he grabs the collar of Sting’s jacket, yanking his head close. “WHEN THE HELL HAVE YOU EVER GAVE A SHIT ABOUT MY FEELINGS?” He’s seething, cigarette falling out of his mouth and onto the ground. Sting opens his mouth about to answer when Rogue cuts him off, “NEVER! YOU’VE NEVER GIVEN A DAMN!” His hands drop Sting’s collar, instantly lashing out with a single fist and punching Sting right in the cheek. He grabs Sting’s cigarette right from between his teeth and puts it into his own mouth, eyes glinting with anger. “If you keep treating me like shit,” he growls, “then I’m going to do the same to you.” With that, Rogue turns on his heel and stalks away, hands going into the pockets of his leather jacket as he turns the street corner and vanishes into the night in a wave of smoke.

Sting stands there alone in the alleyway, covered in vodka, lit only by the light of a burning cigarette on the ground and the dim overhead bulb on the side of the club. He growls angrily and storms inside, hands clenching into fists. Cigarette gone, vodka spilled, Rogue angry...he really needed to forget all of this.

And so, he joins the three inside.

* * *

“There you are, Sting,” Mirajane’s overly sweet voice rings in the stripper’s ears as he enters Sabertooth the very next night. She walks over to him, balanced on extremely tall purple heels, short black skirt swaying around her thighs. A single black, manicured nail touches Sting’s chest, clicking her tongue in slight distaste. “I heard you got a little handsy with some of the customers last night?”

Sting scowls as he walks into the back, dropping his bag to the floor of his and Rogue’s changing room. “They followed my rules.”

“You’re not supposed to touch _them_ ,” Mira reminds him with pursed lips. “If Jiemma-”

“I know,” Sting cut her off. “If the Big Boss of all strip clubs here in the city found out, we’d be fucked. But I promise you, they wanted that attention. Like I’d ever fucking take advantage of someone.”

Mira sighs loudly. “I know that, Sting. But Jiemma doesn’t know you like Erza and I do. If he hears you’ve been breaking the rules, you’ll be outta here before sunrise.” Sting grits his teeth in anger as Mira continues. “You're one of our best, Sting, we can't lose you...please try and be more responsible.”

Sting can't stop the words from tumbling from his lips. “How can I, when Rogue’s acting like a fucking lunatic?!”

Mira raises an eyebrow. “I wouldn't say he was acting like a _lunatic_. More like someone ready to quit their job because they're dissatisfied with life.”

“He's quitting stripping and hasn't said a damn word to me?!” Sting explodes. “What the actual fuck?! People love our group shows, if he leaves my individual popularity is gonna go down too! He’s gonna screw me over!”

Mira frowns, not saying a word as she lifts a single manicured finger to brush against the nasty bruise forming on Sting’s cheek. “I’m going to go out on a limb and say he gave you this.”

“Probably was drunk out of his mind,” Sting hisses, although he hadn't smelled any alcohol in Rogue’s breath last night. Even if right now his and Rogue’s partnership was

being tested, he had to vouch for him somehow.

“Wouldn't be surprised,” Mira says loftily. She blinks, then sighs softly. “That reminds me.” She taps her nails against her thigh as she speaks. “Which crazy fuckers smoked pot actually _in_ the club before closing last night?”

Sting strains to remember the previous night after he talked to Rogue, but finds nothing. “I don't know,” is all he says, “I didn't see anything like that.” He yanks off his t-shirt and reaches for the glitter, rubbing it onto his palms in preparation to slather it onto his body. He turned to look at Mira, his voice clipped and annoyed. “Speaking of Rogue, where the hell is he?”

“You haven't seen him?” Mira sighs. “Dear me. Well, if he doesn't show, you can take two solos.”

“I don't _want_  two solos,” Sting hisses angrily, rubbing glitter onto his left arm. “I want _Rogue_.” Suddenly realizing how possessively sexual that sounded, he opens his mouth to try to put himself in a better light.

But Mira sighs, pulling a cigarette from her purse and lighting it. “Don't bother. I already know about your little prostitution game.”

“Neither of us are prostitutes, and it isn't a fucking game!” Sting spits, whirling around to look at her. His palms are covered in glitter, a strange irony within the situation.

“It's your problem, not mine,” Mira replies coolly as she presses her cigarette to her pink painted lips. “Go ahead then, ruin your life with a toxic relationship.”

“IT’S NOT A RELATIONSHIP!” Sting screams.

“Then what is it, Sting?!” Mira hisses. She steps towards him, her demonic side showing. “If it's not a game and it's not a relationship, what is it?! Don't you think that maybe there's a _reason_ Rogue didn't tell you he's quitting?” She purses her lips. “It's _you_ , Sting. You're toxic. You're ruining his life, and he’s had enough.”

“Shut up,” Sting chokes up. “Stop talking like you understand! Like you know me! Like you know _him_!”

Mira’s eyes are liquid fire. “But Sting,” she whispers, “I do know him. I know the _true_ Rogue. Not the sex object with his face.” With that, she dramatically moves out of the room, heels clicking away behind her, leaving Sting behind with glitter heavy on his hands like blood.

“There you are!” Sting snaps the second Rogue walks into the changing room 5 minutes before they were supposed to go on. “Where the fuck have you been?! You can't go on in your t-shirt and jeans with no glitter, you've got 5 minutes and you're not even fucking moving!”

Rogue’s voice is dangerously quiet. “I’m not changing. Or going onstage. I came to say something, and the moment it's said, I’m leaving and never coming back.”

“Why?!” Sting challenges, stalking forward like an angry tiger. One of his hands moves towards Rogue, hovering in the air as if he was going to touch him. “Besides, you can’t just up and leave. You fucking _owe_ me, Rogue Cheney!”

“I don’t owe you shit!” Rogue slaps  Sting’s hand away, eyes burning with rage. “That’s what I came to tell you, _Sting Eucliffe_!” he snarls, copying Sting’s harsh tone. He takes a step closer, teeth gritted together. “You think you’ve got me all figured out, don’t you?” Sting opens his mouth to protest when Rogue shoves him backwards slightly, causing the blond stripper to stumble. “Well, let me tell you something about me you may not fucking know.”

His eyes glint with hatred and another emotion that Sting can’t name. “I _loathe_ people like you. People who always have had it made since they were young. And you can claim you grew up in the ghetto with drugs and cigarettes being the norm since age 12 but you’ve got something natural within you that draws people to you, to crave your body or feel sympathy for you.” He starts to pace, anger flowing off of him like water. “Everybody in this damn club loves you! You’re the _star_ , making hundreds of dollars every night from tips alone! Everybody claims they _wish_ they could have a sexual relationship with you like I do!”

Those glinting eyes narrow into slits as Rogue screams, “HOW THE FUCK WOULD THEY FEEL, HUH, IF THEIR BEAUTIFUL, OH SO _WONDERFUL_ STING EUCLIFFE TURNED OUT TO BE A MANIPULATIVE ASSHOLE TAKING ADVANTAGE OF ANOTHER MAN’S STRUGGLING LIVELIHOOD SO YOU CAN HAVE A LITTLE FUN?! HOW WOULD THEY FEEL IF THEY FOUND OUT THE WAY YOU’VE TREATED ME LIKE _SHIT_ FOR THE PAST FEW MONTHS, GIVING ME FIVE FUCKING DOLLARS OR SO AND THEN CLAIMING I OWED YOU _HOURS_ OF SEXUAL FAVORS WHERE YOU _FORCED_ ME INTO DEALING WITH YOUR MILDLY KINKY BULLSHIT THAT I ONLY CONSENTED TO OUT OF FEAR!”

Sting’s jaw drops. But Rogue isn’t done. Tears are streaking down his face as he marches up to Sting again, voice wavering as he spits, “And yet...I still fell in love with you! _You!_ You’re practically my _abuser_ and I _love_ you!”

Sting is too shocked to speak, rooted in place as a wave of revelations and questions hit him all at once. He wants to say something, scream right back, lie and say he felt the same just to save his skin… But the words never come. The only sound besides the booming of the bass outside is silence.

Rogue’s voice is far too soft. “And that’s why I’m leaving. I’m leaving because…” He looks Sting straight in the eyes, voice steady and calm. “I’m tired of being your whore.”

Sting opens his mouth, then closes it again. He’s thoroughly shocked, only able to stammer out, “I...You were never…”

“Yes, I was.” Rogue’s voice is a bit shaky again, having used up all of his confidence in his last statement. “But not anymore. I’m d-done with you...forever.” He turns to leave, moving towards the door.

“NO!” Sting shouts, grabbing his wrist and dragging him back into the room. “You can’t go. You _can’t_. You’re going to ruin my life-”

Rogue laughs bitterly. “Oh, like you’ve done to mine?” He sees Sting freeze up in terror and yanks his arm away from Sting’s grasp. “I hope I screw you up. You deserve it.” Rogue doesn’t say another word, striding out of the room confidently without looking back.

Sting shakes his head, feeling a single tear slide down his cheek. “What have I done…?” he whispers. He falls to his knees, shaking in sheer terror. “All of that joking about me being a bitch...I really am a horrible person… I _forced_ him to have sex with me...I s-said I’d never mistreat someone like that...and yet...I _had_ been…” He gasps, choking as another tear joins the first. “Not a relationship...but he _loved_ me...st-still loves me…” He shakes his head. “And I...don’t love him in return. B-But...I’m such a terrible, abusive person…”

The door swings open to reveal Mirajane’s girlfriend and co-manager, Erza Scarlet. “Sting, what the hell is going on here?!” she explodes. “You were supposed to be onstage by now, and where the fuck is Rogue?!”

Sting is shaking as he moves to his feet. “Rogue...is gone.”

Erza blinks, for once not having anything to say. Sting ignores her and wipes the tears from his eyes, shaky hand reaching for his eyeliner. He slathers it on quickly, then sets it back down on the counter. He turns to Erza, forcing himself to look put together. She nods, then steps aside.

As Sting moves backstage alone, he feels as if he’s floating, in a parallel universe, out of his own body. Voices move around him, the smell of smoke and alcohol and pot fills the air, bodies slide clothes on and off. Names and insults and jokes are tossed around, but their speakers aren’t identifiable.

Sting steps backstage, watching as a slightly high Lisanna moves to signal Max to announce them. She staggers a bit as she walks, and Sting can’t help but to wonder how such a popular club like this one is filled with so many fucked up, broken people. The lights flash white, smoke fills the air, screams nearly drown out the music, and Sting steps onto the stage alone for the first time in his entire stripping career.

That was the thing that hurt Sting most as he goes for the pole out front almost instantly, being overly sexual in an attempt to distract everyone from his missing companion. It seemed as if he and Rogue had been nothing but sex partners, but...they had been friends once. Wide-eyed college Freshman who met on their first day of school, laughing, smoking, and sharing stories of their fucked up high school experience.

Rogue had been out of a job for a while, and Sting had never had one in the first place. They went to a club together one night, and they discovered they both could dance. They were better together than alone, they realized. And so, they’d started researching dance videos to give themselves another reason to hang out. But one thing lead to another, until Sting found himself on a website filled with gay stripping videos and pole dancing, and before either of them had realized exactly what they were doing, they were watching them on a daily basis, practicing every day they could with whatever two broke college boys could get their hands on. When their attention was drawn to Sabertooth, they’d gone and applied right away. They’d been accepted almost immediately, but the praise was always greater for Sting.

Sting slid up and down the pole, wrapping his legs tight just like the way he did on the pole outside of that junky old gas stop three miles from the college, Rogue coaching him and moving his legs into a better position. The whoops from the crowd turned into the yells of the cashier running out there and telling them to stop or they’d call the police. The flashing lights turned into the one working headlight on Rogue’s car shining through the night as they drove away as fast as they could, laughing their asses off and sharing a cigarette. The music of the club became the car radio, blasting annoying pop songs at 11pm on a Thursday night as he and Rogue sped twenty miles per hour above the speed limit along the nearly empty side roads of their hometown.

Sting doesn’t want to take his clothes off, doesn’t want to expose how weak he truly is today, but his white leather jacket falls to the floor anyways. He normally takes his time, but his pants are off only a few moments later. He doesn’t let go of the pole, the cold metal keeping him rooted enough to reality. His underwear rides down, probably revealing a little too much, but he didn’t care. Nothing mattered, nothing was real, everything was a mistake. He’d turned his best friend into nothing more than his sex object, pulled him into a toxic life that had ended up hurting both of them.

The song ends, but instead of staying for his second song, Sting moves off of the stage almost instantly. He hadn’t even noticed people shoved dollar bills into his underwear until they were in his hands and being shoved into his bag in the changing room he used to share with Rogue.

“Sting,” Kagura appears at the door. “Someone requested a lap dance.”

“Great,” Sting mumbles, looking down at his feet. “Just what I need tonight.” He storms off out of the room, going into the side room he had reserved for his lap dances. He and Rogue’s sexual activity had taken place in here most of the time, and seeing the bare interior of the room again made Sting want to throw up. He keeps the lights off, closing the door behind him. “Alright then, what exactly did you order? And do you want the lights on or off?”

Just then, the lights flick on, activated by the switch on the far side of the room no one ever used.  Sting starts as the sight of a familiar black-haired teen comes into view. “R-Rogue?” he splutters in disbelief. “I thought you said you were never going to come back here!”

Rogue looks away, voice heavy and full of emotion. “Yeah, well, I guess I’m not as strong as I thought I was.”

Sting slowly moves towards him, hesitant to even touch him. His voice cracks slightly as he speaks. “I...I’m sorry.”

“Don’t apologize,” Rogue snaps.  “Sorry doesn’t erase what you’ve done.” He looks up at Sting, dark red eyes staring right through him.

Sting’s words come out in a rush, “I don’t know what the hell I was thinking, Rogue. And honestly, you’d have to be crazy to stick around here after the way I treated you.”

“You _weren’t_ thinking,” Rogue practically growls. “When we made that _stupid_ deal, I was sick and starving and you were extremely high and drunk and depressed. We both were idiots...me for not ending this sooner, you for doing such an awful thing in the first place.”

“It wasn’t your fault,” Sting shakes his head. “It was all mine.” He sucks in a deep, shuddering breath. “Look...I...you should go.”

Rogue swallows hard. “Here,” he says weakly, passing Sting a wad of dollar bills.

“What the hell?” Sting hisses, taking them and realizing that there’s far too much money here to pay for any of his lapdances or the like. He looks up at Rogue’s strangely determined face. “Why are you giving me all of this, Rogue?!”

“Because…” Rogue swallows hard. “This entire deal is blood in the water, and we know it. If you take all of the money back you gave me...all that was between us was a friends with benefits sort of thing.”

“No,” Sting breathes, “No no no no! Rogue, you _can’t_ , I _hurt_ you, don’t try to hide that and disguise it-”

“Like I want your life to be ruined,” Rogue’s voice cracks. “When I said that earlier, I...was lying. You know prostitution is against the law.”

“If it were prostitution, it-” Sting stops cold, suddenly realizing that from an outsider's point of view, that’s exactly what the deal was. “Oh...I see. You’re saving your own skin. That’s completely justified...I manipulated you into this...you shouldn’t get in trouble for that.”

Rogue blinks, completely shocked. “You...you aren’t mad? I m-mean...you’re getting your money back…”

“To hell with the money,” Sting throws the dollar bills over his shoulder, feeling them fall to the ground behind him. “I hurt my best friend. So I’m going to do everything in my power to make sure you’re able to at least gain a bit of happiness.”

Rogue blinks slowly. “You...you’ve changed, Sting.”

Sting blinks, hand moving up to his mouth, then to his throat. “It’s because…” He stops when realizing that since he’d gotten here tonight, he hadn’t touched a drop of alcohol, a single cigarette, or any drugs. “...I’m sober. And not just in the alcohol way…” He steps closer to Rogue, eyes fixated on him. “I’ve realized my mistakes. You’ve pulled away the curtain from in front of my eyes.”

“Well, good,” Rogue turns to go, walking towards the door. “Now I’m really leaving.” Before he can exit, Sting places a hand on his arm and makes Rogue face him. Rogue’s eyes flash with annoyance. “If you say sorry again, I’m going to-”

His sentence is brutally cut off by Sting slamming a kiss against Rogue’s lips, threading his fingers through Rogue’s hair and making sure the kiss is passionate, warm, and tender. He doesn’t love Rogue, he probably never will...but Rogue needed this moment...just one chance to actually feel like he was loved and cared for...before Sting let him go. Sting wasn’t sure if doing this was helpful or cruel, but he’d missed Rogue’s lips rough against his own and it was a relief to feel them again.

Suddenly, Rogue pushes him off, tears sparkling in his eyes. “St-Stop it,” his voice cracks. “You’ll only make it hurt more.”

“I was afraid of that,” Sting murmurs softly. He reaches forward and wipes a tear off of Rogue’s cheek with his thumb. “I don’t love you, Rogue...I’m so sorry...and don’t tell me not to say that, because in this moment...what else can I say?” He looks at him with complete and total sympathy. “Please...go out there into life and find someone else. Don’t waste your kind heart on someone like me.”

Rogue laughs shakily. “I...don’t know if I can. But I’ll try…” He lifts his head again to look into Sting’s eyes. “Goodbye, Sting. Please...try to quit smoking. And don’t do drugs. They’re bad for you.”

Sting snorts. “Okay, _Mom_.” He pauses, thinking about those statements for a moment. “Wait, so it’s okay to drink?”

“There’s no way I’m taking _that_ away from you,” Rogue laughs, more real and lively now. “You’ve always been a heavy drinker. No vodka bottle ever stands a chance with you around.”

“Damn right,” Sting mumbles, suddenly wondering why Rogue even cared about his unhealthy habits now. “But wait, Rogue, why do you-”

“Shhh,” Rogue’s voice is hushed. “Quiet, now. Don’t ruin the moment.” Fresh tears slide down his cheeks. “Goodbye...my friend.”

Sting smiles weakly, trying not to sob himself as a single tear streaks his cheek. “Goodbye, Rogue...good luck out there.”

He watches as Rogue steps out of the room and into the club, fading into the music, moving bodies, and flashing lights. He fits in so easily, Sting almost lost sight of him. But even among the crowd, Rogue walks with a new air of confidence and determination, ready to start anew with a life full of better choices, leaving the past behind him.

Sting stands there in the room where he gave lap dances, dressed in only a pair of tight underwear, covered in shimmering silvery white glitter, lungs longing for a cigarette. He realizes the harsh reality that unlike Rogue, his journey to a better life won’t be easy. But he remembers Rogue’s halted, emotional words, and repeats them softly to himself under his breath, “I don’t know if I can. But I’ll try…”

With that, he steps backstage once more, refusing an offer to join Bickslow, discarding a half-empty vodka bottle he’d left here two nights ago, and lighting a cigarette. He won’t ever be perfect. He won’t ever be able to atone for the wrongdoings he’d committed. But as he sits there backstage, the only thing that comes to mind is, _He still considers me a friend._

His eyeliner runs wet down his cheek, and he touches it in surprise, only to have the water on his fingers come up murky, a strange mix of black and clear... a touch of purity among the darkest of days.


End file.
